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written by: Francesse



Pain is as soft
as her gossamer cloak,
with brightly claws of turmoil brewing
seas of hope,
just beneath the wave-crest,
barely touching dawn even
on the horizon where eyes of the moon
rest to wait on her pain. Pain —
with its phases through and through,
the caref’lly-crafted doubts,
the ill-refined unwillingness,
the nothingness in between,
this is a subtle void,
a rest amidst a stormy song,
a dirge unshackled, buried long
before symptoms of sickness made
the poorest heart its home. Pain
leads the humble beast to build —
with its mind’s simplicity — dreams
as tangible as the nature of these
fleeting, passing, fading pictures. How
only a fool could write it, thus,
and believe it to stand firm. Pain
is caution. Pain is dire.
Pain is beautiful.
Pain is fire.



I’d like to think poets in pain communicate and write more effectively. It’s like… we need it. Not healthy to linger on it for too long though.



I *love* reading and writing poetry, but I can't write a decent biography if it could save my life...

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